Prince by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 16
Polly heard the alarm sound in the dark as she had set it to get her up early on this, the July Fourth celebration of
“independence,” though she heard more of America’s inter-dependence and wondered if the original word was just an everyday shortening of the currently correct designation. She thought;
“Maybe that’s why people more often say July Fourth rather than the holiday’s supposed real name; Independence Day.” She decided to forget that for the moment and one day bring it up in school, but with what she had heard of Mr. Gebus, she didn’t think that next semester would be the likely time. Right now she had to get moving, as in addition to the “normal” parade down Corrales Road, Camino De Lucia would likely be having its own “abnormal”
spectacle in the form of Deadeye, his horse and his sky-aimed, blazing rifle from 10AM until 2PM and she wanted to be safely back indoors with Prince before he got started. Prince would be surprised at not remaining in the yard after their walk, but Polly thought; “No problem. He’s regularly surprised to the point that the lack of a surprise would be bizarre and I want us to have thick adobe between the one man embarrassment exhibition and us.”
Prince stretched out his spotted frame, extended his paws to their limits, looked at Polly as if to say; “You can’t be serious,” grunted and re-positioned himself on the bed. Polly
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went to the kitchen and first emptied half a can of dog food into a dish, thinking that this would bring the lethargic one running.
It didn’t. Polly thought; “All right, lazy boy. But, I’m going to have mine.” She left his bowl on the counter, microwaved breakfast and started the coffee machine.
As she waited she hummed; “When Johnny comes marching home again,” which was learned in kindergarten singing sessions. She saw little in the window other than her own reflection, but heard distant rumblings. The darkness precluded a good look at anything except her pretty face, which she soon tired of. It was more interesting to stick fingers in the sides of her mouth and pull, creating an image worthy of being posted on the internet. She enhanced the display by sticking out her tongue, making the show scream for its own website.
Dad stood quietly at the door watching her. He furtively got behind her and grabbed her around the belly, lifted her off the ground and tickled. Her first reaction of a squealing, startled scream, turned to uncontrolled laughter and then embarrassment when Dad put her back down. He said; “Be careful. Your face could freeze like that.”
Prince heard her scream, pushed himself up and thought;
“Better check this out.” He bounded down the stairs and made a growling entrance into the kitchen, where he stopped and stared at
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the duo, who were now staring at him, with expressions that said;
“What?”
Unable to explain, Prince grumbled, surveyed the room and thought; “.........” Since he was now up at this absurd hour, he thought that he may as well have some food and scented his stuff up on the counter. He went to it and put his paws up on the cabinet to get his face closer to his dish; a no-no he knew-knew as his sharp claws were capable of scratching anything they touched. Dad grabbed his dish, intending to put it on the floor, but Polly got a better idea and stopped him. She took the dish and used it to lead Prince to the dark back yard, where she put it on the grass and went back in.
Prince sniffed at it, then took a mouthful, looking back at the now closed door as he chewed in the darkness and thought; “If I didn’t know them better I’d think that I just got set up.” He heard the rumblings, looked up, saw nothing and spit.
Over coffee Polly told her father of her plans to get out early and that Prince was reticent to get up today. “I was afraid that if he ate here he would have turned around and gone back to bed. It’s impossible to get him out of there if he doesn’t feel like it.” She ate and drank as quickly as she could, went back to her room and intended to change from her yellow “Goofy” pajamas to well-used clothes, considering that she wanted something that wouldn’t be thoroughly soaked by the first few raindrops. But,
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she decided to retain her PJ’s and top them with a deep purple, Led Zeppelin sweatshirt and blue jeans. If she got too hot she could always remove and carry the sweatshirt, probably enhancing her approval ratings amongst the burghers.
She went outside in the bellowing darkness and Prince came right to her. She attached his double length chain and they were off. Well, they were sort of off in more ways than one, but this sort of referred to their speed. As Prince and Polly could not see more than ten feet in front of them, the trek start was on the slow side with him in front, nose to the ground, in an effort to detect monsters or any other undesirables that might be waiting there to cause a tumble. Sporadic belches of New Mexico style rain was felt at a rate of about five drops per minute, while the still hidden clouds made triumphant roars as if they had made some major accomplishment. However, the scant wetness was sufficient to bring up the smells that lay dormant and Prince scoured the street side to side, finding out who or what had been there recently. Skunks, coyotes, squirrels and other small furry animals of indeterminate origin were in some evidence, but the overwhelming attraction was the rabbit that he tried to get a while back and he thought that this might be his lucky day. He picked up speed as he sensed that he had focused in on its trail, or possibly tail, keeping his nose so close to the asphalt that Polly was afraid he would scrape it. She pleaded with him,
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saying; “Careful, careful,” a few times, which affected him as much as the yellow line painted down the middle of Camino De Lucia. He went straight to the Rulestone wire fence and found a spot where he could see between the clustered chamisas. He saw the rabbit arrogantly sitting on its hind legs fifty feet away.
Prince’s body went stiff and he pounded his front paws on the dirt, frustrated that the smelly little rabbit was mocking him, over its perceived advantage of being small enough to fit between the fence spacings. Prince angrily ran up and down the fence in an effort to find a hole large enough for him to use, giving up after the third patrol. He made a sound something like a snort followed by a high-pitched “Oorft.” The triumphant bunny took this as capitulation to his superior maneuverability and so did Polly.
As the sun made its first appearance of the day, filtered through the clustered, globular, gray clouds, like a twenty watt bulb enclosed in a dark lampshade, she gave him a bit of a tug and said; “Come on. Let’s get going before the chamisa freaks see us.”
Prince gave the infuriatingly complacent rabbit one last, hard glare as if to say; “I could have gotten you, but my friend has more important things to do.” He didn’t believe it, himself.
They went directly to the split grass entry to the Bosque and Prince crossed the iron bridge without stopping for a drink and
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dunk. He went up and down the levee straight to the river and took his dip there. He was surprised as the water was higher and rushing more quickly than in the past, due to torrents of rain dropping up-river. He came to a spot where his paws no longer touched the bed, turned to come back and was greeted with a strong flow all over his face. Polly held the leash well and slowly pulled him back to shore, the still unsettled puppy looking thankful, scared and thoroughly drenched.
He shook off and remained on the bank, assessing what had happened. The usually tame Rio Grande appeared dark, fast, choppy and turbulent as it slammed into low branching bushes at the river’s edge with a seeming wrath, sounding like the roar of a small waterfall. Away from the protection of trees and houses, Prince and Polly noticed the gusting north wind for the first time this morning as it cooled them more than they wanted to be cooled and blew organic debris in their faces, at times making them feel as if they were being stung by insects, though in actuality the bugs and pests knew enough to stay in their tunnels and under their rocks until conditions improved. Stepping away from the black cascade the couple heard the wind attempting to mangle small, soft branches, ripping new leaves from their homes and carrying them to unknown and un-chosen destinations.
They both thought that the morning was menacing and Polly expected to see the Wicked Witch of the West any second, while
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Prince wondered what more unpleasantness would occur if the droplets from the sky actually became a drizzle or a near rainfall. Each looked to the other to see if their partner wanted to continue. Polly said; “Let’s do it! This is a real adventure!”
Prince got the idea and was of the same opinion.
The boldly resounding, overhead, yet-to –be- completed masterpiece, incessantly rumbling and echoing cacophony rendered their useless and insignificant voices mute in a welcomed subliminal, unthinking deference to the overwhelming heavenly and earth-bound displays of upstairs lightning and flickering sunlight, which found its way between the clouds, in a kaleidoscopic manner and downstairs flesh stirring gale-force winds, lampooning the socialized insect, museum entombing dirge; an adventure sought by the healthiest of psyches and physiques, swelling the tempestuous river, violently bubbling and undulating like an overcooked pot of broth over an excessive flame, threatening to burst through its now man-managed boundaries, gently probing at the bush-lined banks, while attempting to maximize its peaking time on the brink, before it will finally break through in a highly localized explosion, with waves of rippling tide, rushing where anything is allowed and nothing is denied; loudly and openly ridiculing the creepy-crawly, bugging, phony-caca of the tongue-tied, dumb, gawking, backward and not-
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anymore-silent majority, who monotonously lock-step in a dishonestly and falsely ordered geometric procession, considering its symmetrical mathematics perfection while Someone looks down with repugnance at the pitiful and observable failure, as they continue on to their boring and somnambulistic, but unknowingly merciful demise, too senseless and thoughtless to ever realize that Atomic is the way of the living soul.
With the wind at their backs their first few southeasterly steps were taken with caution, remaining on the well-worn path and testing its mud-slippery conditions. With yet no significant rainfall, the tiny, sporadic drops of water were immediately dried by the gusts, leaving the duo the opportunity to move anywhere at whatever pace they chose. Like greyhounds, by their fourth steps they were in high gear. They had no idea where they were going, but were determined to get there quickly, as conditions change all too soon and moreover Polly wanted to get back home before Deadeye started his OK Corral routine.
Prince diverged from the tired and worn as soon as he came to an opening between the trees and tall bushes. They entered new territory with tricky gullies, now sporting decades of not having enough water to harbor any fish, which aridly stand, or perhaps stoop, as evidence of the long forgotten breadth of the Rio Grande. If discovered during the last decade a more appropriate name might have been Rio Marron Playo No Navegable (Un-navigable
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shallow brown river). The gullies’ gradually uphill location shows that it was once deep and wide, when it earned its simpler name.
Polly had some difficulties when Prince led her into the dry holes as he was able to rather easily traverse the graduated declines and inclines, but she didn’t possess his good footing and called out; “Whoo, whoo, whoo,” when declining. She picked up speed and when he stopped to investigate the bottoms, she had to slow down and stop quickly to avoid running right into him. He’d give her a strange look as since she had never previously plowed right into him, he didn’t consider the possibility that she would now. The inclines worried her less as without his help she would have had difficulty getting out and consequently he grunted and half pulled her, sometimes looking back as if to say; “Oh, come on now, girly,” fortunate that she didn’t know the precise translation of his thoughts.
They explored gully after gully, until Prince saw that they were getting near the levee. As he preferred to remain “down in the hole,” as some people refer to it, he angled eastward, toward the dimly luminous sun, still completely filtered by black, thundering clouds. While it wasn’t a photographer’s cup of tea, enough light was provided for both to see well into the distances.
They didn’t have the usual degree of detail, but were comfortable
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in being able to see any huge hazards; the little ones only a concern to lesser duos; or so they thought.
They passed through an area infested with broken tree limbs on the ground. The living cottonwoods were sufficiently spaced and there was little other than grassy things sharing the ground with the dead limbs, so that walking through was fairly easy as the array of small obstacles dictated that Prince go “Slow, slow,”
without being requested, in order to keep his own balance. Polly smiled and said; “See, even you can’t do this one.” Her amusement faded when she realized that all this wood on the ground was once somewhere over her head. With the wind rattling through and bending branches she thought of the possibility of one coming down on their heads and decided that this was not a good place to be under these conditions.
Prince dallied in “Dead Limb Acres,” partly because he thought he was making Polly happy and partly because the area was home to rodents, squirrels, chipmunks and rabbits, who have a penchant for wooden houses. The slight moisture in the air brought their fragrances to him and he seemed determined to inhale every one. Polly took the lead and tried to direct him to an area only 100 feet away with only a few huge trees and fewer limbs on the ground, a possible testimony to their superior strength.
Prince ambled around and complied with the first few collar tugs he received, thinking; “Okay, no problem. For some reason she
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wants to move. There’s more stinky stuff ahead.” When he was yanked for the fourth time and the only remaining stinky stuff required backtracking, he tried to do precisely that.
“No, no, no, no, no,” came the demanding female voice.
Prince couldn’t believe it. He thought; “I went nice and slow through the sticks as I know you prefer. But, after being so good you want to deny me my fragrances. You’ve got a lot of nerve.”
Polly tugged and said; “Come on this way.”
Prince took a seat.
Polly knew this could be tricky, so she did a quick survey and decided that since the long leash allowed her to sit under the sky, while if Prince wanted to sit under branches, that was his business, so, she, too, took a seat and thought; “If he’s going to be adamant about it there’s nothing else that I can do.”
Prince had gotten to know the mutual sitting situation and settled in for the long haul.
If anyone was watching they would have seen what appeared to be two bodies, completely relaxed with each other, enjoying a good storm; eyes patiently scanning the slow moving clouds which were only slow because of obesity as the wind was ten times as quick, the early birds screaming with wings beating frantically, but covering little distance as they struggled to get on with their normal activities and gazing at the river through the trees,
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seeing that it’s uproar was beginning to break up long established islands, sounding like a new bulldozer in highest gear.
“Interesting stuff,” thought Prince. “I should sit still more often.”
Polly thought; “If you’re going to sit this is a good place to do it, as for once we have complete privacy.” She was really just guessing as she didn’t think anyone else would be dumb enough to be out on such a miserable day. She would soon see the wisdom of her speculation, as Big-Mr.-Overeducated-who-can’t-make-his-mind-up-about-anything-with-attendant-humor-attempts (BM) and his ill-tempered terrier mix, Brutus, were ready to descend on them.
Polly did not yet know that BM preferred to be out on bad weather days for precisely the same reason as she; it was the best shot at not having to rub elbows with the hoi polloi. During their last encounter Polly was without request enlightened about Prince, when she heard BM’s slow, stumbling voice venture; “I would say that that Dalmatian would do well to enroll in a number of obedience courses, with a suggested major in Reserve,” only mildly irking her at the time as the instructive aspect was well said and sounded only slightly dogmatic.
Polly was first to notice the giant man’s approach when she saw the colossal, non-descript windbreaker with attached hood, doing its best to appear as natural green and brown foliage; successful at being a synthetic, shining at the creases, deep
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discount store hunting jacket. BM was trudging carefully down the most worn, visible path with cranky Brutus, who looked ridiculously frightful with his corkscrew black hair matted down; the result of an ill-advised ditch dunking.
Polly said; “You were right. He can use some training right now.
BM appeared startled and replied; “That’s not exactly what I said. Actually the two of you give me the impression that you’ve established a mutually beneficial procedure (MBP).” He found this commentary mildly amusing and demonstrated that by curling the edges of his un-open mouth.
Polly was incredulous as it seemed to her that BM had reversed his position just when she had playfully, for the sake of a pleasant conversation, reversed her own. Not only was this confusing to Polly, it also bothered her and in the efficient, mock-friendly voice of a department store manager approving returns after Christmas she said; “I know that’s not precisely what you said, but it’s a reasonable facsimile.”
Satisfied with his impromptu display of dry wit and poised to rest on his laurels BM calmly said; “No, it’s not.”
Prince destroyed the temporary MBP in the parlance of BM, which he considered a mulish standoff (MS), as he got up and crossed by Polly, who, if asked would have described their
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previous positions as improvisational obligatory compulsion (IOC), in an attempt to see what foul thing tiny Brutus had up his snout.
Brutus is no fool and when he saw Prince coming his way, he got behind BM. Prince stopped three feet away and gave Brutus a hard, evaluating look. He had no intention of touching the little devil. His practical side took over and he thought; “If I attack this runt, first, Polly will probably be mad; second, I won’t get any accolades for destroying a midget; and third, if the midget does any damage to me, boy, will I ever be embarrassed.” So, he merely sneered, with an extremely low, guttural “Rrrrrr,” which only he and Brutus could hear. Brutus put on a show he considered tactically effective (Tacky E), as he darted out from between BM’s legs, yipping ferociously for a fraction of a second, after which he would allow BM to pull him back to safety.
After permitting Brutus a few brief excursions into his awfully condensed heart of darkness, which seemed to satisfy both of them, BM reprimanded in a professorial fashion utilizing demonically pursed lips to say; “I should think it best we be on our way.”
While Polly was grateful for the gist of the communication, she didn’t at all like the manner in which it was delivered. She knew that the ado was over nothing much and that manneristic comedy suffered only an uncouth brush by, but she felt obliged to
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attempt some fun by way of IOC. She called out, to the rhythm of echoing thunder in the valley; “So, does he need training or not?”
The only possible response Polly could detect was a stiffening of BM’s back.
Polly tried again, saying; “Does he need training or not?”
No response.
She almost choked on the words she added; “I really value your opinion.”
When BM reached a comfortable distance, he picked up Brutus, turned and said; “As one considers the prerogatives known to be available and making allowance for those not yet seen, it becomes abundantly clear that the practicality of more information is never a dis-service.”
Polly giggled. She looked at Prince and fluttered her eyes, which he understood to mean something like; “I love you,” “I’m feeling extremely silly,” or both. She led him north. She said;
“BM is going south and if we run into him again, he’ll have had time to expand on his thoughts.”
Prince thought; “Should have asked him if he was capable of voting.”
They crossed over the path numerous times as they zigzagged from the levee to the river. Prince found the newly wet fragrances irresistible. He stopped at every one and sometimes dug down trying to find the source.
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They reached the drain field and handball court, which supposedly had some use in case of a flood and stopped at wood’s edge. During the last flood the devious water avoided its human approved concrete path and chose to rest in forbidden back yards.
They looked out and at each other, registering aesthetic disapproval for the flat, shaven monstrosity and its brittle playmate. For a moment they wondered if it was worth the effort to pass through the eyesore and decided that it was as the land on the other side was the most attractive they had seen. They took one step and they heard a loud crackle and slow sizzle. Worse was what they saw; lightning had struck right in the middle of the drain field and whatever got sizzled was now hidden under the short brush.
Polly stopped and said; “Whooo.”
Prince stopped and thought; “Whooo.”
Polly said; “It will be there tomorrow.”
Prince thought; “I think it will be there tomorrow, but if not, we’ll find something else.”
They turned back, using the primary path, as today Prince had already investigated the offshoots most interesting to him and he was averse to going back the same way he had come. He wasn’t ready to go home yet, so he bypassed their entry path and continued southeast along the rising river. However, where the path turned inland, he ignored it and went through ten feet of
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five foot tall, soft grass and entered a sandy area, which was well on the way to being slowly reclaimed by the feisty Rio Grande. He walked the edge, enjoying how the tiny waves rushed over his paws only to retreat again, becoming more self-assured with each push.
They came to the end of the beach and would either have to turn back, swim or climb the steep three foot dirt wall into the woods. The choice took no thought whatsoever for Prince and he looked for a spot he could climb. He found one with sufficient indentation to afford him two jumps, which he made easily, then pulled Polly up. In one direction they were confronted with an irregular winding path through thick woods which dictated remaining on it and in another more tall and soft grass. Prince opted for the latter, thinking that the walk would be an easy one with the opportunity to go in all directions. What he didn’t know was that while the grass he saw was soft at the new growth edges, the plant was actually a perennial reed, which got harder with each passing year and culminated in difficult woody bushes.
They went through the soft stuff easily and Prince enjoyed pushing down the blades, revealing a surprise ahead. The “grass”
got harder, but was still not a problem until they got into hard wood. It was clustered so tightly that there was no way to avoid going right through it. The only other choice was to turn back, but this didn’t suit either of their personalities.
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Because of her height advantage Polly could see over the top of the rigid, five foot, nuisance plants and observed that if they continued their course and struggled with the difficult bushes, they’d be out of them in six feet. Prince had a lower perspective and noticed that a small gutter ran through the reeds and afforded a bit of an improved path as nothing grew in the trench which, now dry, was created by run-off during heavy rains. Prince insisted on following the gutter and it wasn’t an easy trip for Polly as the bushes would snap back at her and hit her face like a whip.
She could see that if one followed the trench there was no visible exit from the reeds. For all she knew that route could go on forever. She decided that it was best for them to force their way through six feet of heavy wood and tried to get Prince to go that way. His lower and more immediate vision could not imagine Polly’s elevated, lengthier one. It made no sense to him and he was getting stuck with brushwood all over. He was in the lead and was having a more difficult time because after he laboriously flattened out the wood, Polly could, without much difficulty, pass through the space he had created. He backed out and insisted on following the gutter.
Polly saw futility and decided to become the path maker, using her feet to trample the imprisoning sticks. This was a tedious process and Prince saw no point in it. He kept yanking her to the trench, making her work more difficult, and causing an
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occasional stumble. Each one increasingly taxed her patience and she soon heard her own Ginger Baker solo.
She inserted two fingers into his blue collar and rudely pulled him back to where she stood, yelling; “Just sit right there, stupid.”
Prince was tempted to advise her that his teeth had not yet fallen out, but he was sufficiently relaxed to remember that he always hated himself immediately after the two previous Polly bites. He considered his circumstances. He was comfortable, didn’t have to do any work and he politely sat and watched. He thought; “If she’s got a problem with exasperating, longstanding bushes, let her knock herself out. It doesn’t hurt me any.” He alternated his gaze between Polly’s struggling frame and the only other vista open to him; straight up to the cantankerous, rumbling sky. It was putting on an excellent show, reminiscent of a 1930’s horror movie. Without the benefit of a gardening tool or two, six feet of thick, old brushwood takes some time to clear. Keeping his head up that long became excruciatingly burdensome to one called a Prince and he feared that if he continued his uncomfortable posture he might get a whopping crick in the neck.
In his stillness he realized that he was hungry and needed something to munch on while he watched the cutting edge, overhead doctor try to harness lightning and create life.
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Prince thought that he had given Polly sufficient time to pursue her fruitless endeavor and he moved toward the tiny channel and gave her a bit of a tug. He knew nothing of timing. Polly was sweating profusely and her hair was now home to eight twigs.
He heard a loud, shrill voice momentarily stifle the sky and say; “JUST SIT RIGHT THERE, USELESS, OR YOU’LL DISCOVER THAT
YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY ONE WITH TEETH.”
Prince sighed and went back to his former spot, though, to protect his sensitive neck; he kept his eyes focused near Polly’s butt. He thought; “This is one mean, determined woman.” He realized that statement could be construed as his admission of having had lost control of the situation, which he actually didn’t mind at all, but in case he were to say something to his less liberated doggy friends, he decided it would be better to say something like; “That woman is driving me crazy and I’m only going to give her a little more time,” and hope no precision freak asks the definition of “little.”
He didn’t sit much longer before a genuine miracle took place right in microscopic Corrales. He saw a parting of the bushes, with filtered, kaleidoscopic light pouring through from the other side. He was no less impressed than Moses in awe of the work of God; in this case technically Polly, and he quickly followed her through the opening and thought; “You better get those sticks off your head before someone else sees you.”
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Polly had worked up an appetite doing the miraculous work and was in full ravenous sync with Prince, so they made their own path through woods and brush, the most direct and shortest line possible to their original entry point.
They moved quickly into the development, Polly enthused that she would soon have her hunger contented and that they had made it back before Deadeye again proved to himself, if no one else, that he was the most patriotic man this side of the handball courts.
But, as seems to always happen, when you think you have it made, someone else senses your exultation and does their best to steal or end it. The feeling must produce a chemical change in the body which can be identified by the professional purveyors of pathetic propriety.
Polly thought; “Lo and behold; look who just came out of his house to take a walk this very second; Handyman Howie.” The smiling, aggressive, fifty year old man knows how to fix everything man created and a few of God’s mistakes. If confronted by Howie, people describe their entire existence as ideal or impeccable as if anyone makes the mistake of saying that there is something less than perfect in their house or on their grounds, Handyman Howie will be shortly on the job, at an above market rate fee, which is the neighborly thing to do for a man whose wife and two children are afflicted with expensive attention deficit disorder (ATD) problems, which clear up when not in the presence
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of Howie. Having him overcharge, for ”reason” of his lengthily detailed necessity, for a job wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen in a town where for fear of losing a good man to the crowd, homeowner’s don’t exchange the most important of information. Which service people do anything right? Howie isn’t one of them, and though he somehow finds jobs elsewhere, he has not worked on Camino De Lucia for years, as the residents know him. But, this doesn’t deter the undaunted average sized Catholic with a belly just shy of pregnancy from believing in the possibility of miracles.
Tactlessly and insistently, Howie said; “What happened to your head?” grinning sufficiently to advertise two gold teeth, the shining highlights of an otherwise bland and typically average face.
Polly suspected that Howie had moved into the growing, more lucrative occupation of head fixing. She checked her head and found some of the sticks. As she removed some she replied; “Oh, we were in the woods,” hoping that she would indicate a momentary minor consideration and not something worthy of his new area of expertise.
“Looks more like the woods were in you.” Grin, grin, grin.
Disinterested, Prince kept moving, pulling a very agreeable Polly with him, but the intruder would have none of that. Howie continued; “You’re the first ones I’ve seen today.”
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Polly mumbled; “That’s not surprising.”
“What was that?”
“Talking to Prince. ....... Our lucky day, I guess.”
In his well-practiced, ingratiating tone Howie inquired; “I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing your wonderful parents for some time now. How’s everything at home?”
“Impeccable.”
Howie grunted, disappointed to see that even kids today know the game. He decided to take a different approach and said;
“That’s no way to walk a dog.” He took the leash from her, adding; “Let me show you how it’s done.” He brought Prince to a temporary halt, got alongside him, nodded and said; “Okay, let’s go.”
Prince thought that Howie wanted to race and took off full blast with the man yelling; “Slow, slow, slow,” with its customary degree of effectiveness. The man fell on the grass shortly before the Thatcher driveway and Prince pulled him, face to the ground, the rest of the way. Prince then turned around to find Polly and saw that she had not moved. It looked as if she was either laughing or cheering for the winner. He wondered why she didn’t run with them and decided to go back to her to find out. Howie was just unsteadily getting on his feet and Prince’s rush pulled him the other way, again face in the ground. Like a sled dog, Prince dug in and used all his strength to attempt to get back to
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Polly, moving the man a few feet with each lurch. He let go of the leash and Prince was soon with her.
Polly again took the confused dog’s leash and considered that there might be some repercussions from this event, so she decided to take the initiative and yelled at the man; “How can you let go of the leash? There could have been a car coming.”
Howie looked flabbergasted, which wasn’t all that unusual.
As he brushed off his pants, he strongly countered with; “What am I supposed to do?”
Polly had a number of possible answers. She could have said;
“You’re the one who knows all the answers,” “You shouldn’t have taken the leash in the first place,” or “Consider a change of attire,” but decided to go right for the throat, angrily saying;
“It’s also against the law to let a dog loose on a public road with a $500 fine. And I’m a witness.”
With a much lighter tone Howie squeaked; “$500?”
“Little over.”
“Well, look little girl ...”
Polly cut him off to assert; “Woman.”
Howie grimaced, but continued; “Woman, why don’t we forget about this whole thing?”
“I don’t know. You endangered my dog.”
“Oh, come on. I was being scraped up and there were no cars on the road.”
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Prince sensed that Polly wasn’t being treated properly. He growled and showed Howie that he had no gold teeth, barking twice loudly. Polly reflected, then said; “Prince and you were lucky.
...... Okay, but don’t ever bother us again.”
“Okay.”
“That goes for the rest of my family, too.”
“Okay.”
“All right then; get out of here!”
Howie extended both hands, using his usual palms up approach and walked away. Polly and Prince ran to their house. When they got to the back yard, Polly let out a burst of laughter. She had discovered one way of avoiding unwanted attention; make it cost them. Prince was confused and he was getting used to being that way around humans. He thought; “There was a potential altercation near eruption and now crazy Polly found the whole thing amusing.
I won’t even ask.”
Still snickering, Polly went in the house to get Prince’s food. Mom was sitting idly in the kitchen with the appropriately named “Corrales Comment” on the table flipping through its pages, in an attempt to find something a bit entertaining, even if it had to be unintentionally amusing. She was desperate for a joke and when she saw her daughter laughing, she wanted to join the merriment asking; “What’s so funny?”
“I think I got rid of Handyman Howie for all of us forever.”
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“That’s not funny. It’s a blessing.”
“Yeah, it is too, funny. He grabbed Prince’s leash to show me how to walk a dog.”
Mom looked skeptical.
“Yeah, right. Anyway, Prince started running and pulled him over. Howie let go of the leash and I threatened to bring him to court for letting a dog loose on a public street; $500 smackers.”
Mom made the briefest of smiles and said; “That should be in this paper,” then went back to it.
Polly filled the dog dish, brought it to her room and went back out to retrieve a surprised Dalmatian.
Prince thought; “Where’s my food. I’ve had a rough day.”
Polly led him to the door and he then thought; “Who’s going to patrol the yard all day?” He went in with her, shaking his head, thinking; “She’s crazy. There is never any sense in asking any questions. You’ve just gotta love and trust her.”
Mom and Dad sat in front of the living room television, watching a program which was recommended to Mom by a neighbor named Suzanne. The divorced, fiftyish guru of the New Age heads a healing-prayer group consisting of women in similar circumstances praying for serenity in their lives, however there is only one man in the group and he is married to Suzanne’s chief flunky. On that day Suzanne wore a fringed jacket and pants, evocative of an
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American Indian outfit she had seen on “Davy Crockett,” as a kid, which she had purchased, on sale, from Nunzio’s Native American Chinese Imports. Suzanne had the distinction of having channeled Lazaris, an independent, free-lance and loquacious spirit, angel, messenger, prophet, nuisance or all of the aforementioned, who said, intoned, resonated, communicated directly through brain invasion, or all of the aforementioned, that if there was not massive world repentance by 12-31-11 that the weary old globe would explode 1-1-12. She is of further New Mexican note as she is the only state resident, and perhaps the only resident of the United States, North America and Western Hemisphere to have written a book about her relationship with Lazaris, who was not the least bit monogamous or discreet, which was published 6-15-12, obviously subsequent to the massive world repentance, approximately one thousand copies of which improve Suzanne’s buckled, parquet living room floor and parts of the above walls.
Meeting attendees are encouraged to purchase a personalized, autographed copy as Suzanne has two hyperactive teenage daughters, requiring medication between boyfriends, and a backed-up septic tank, which is often pointed out in breaks between sickeningly smiling, hands up, meditations and hushed breath lectures concerning the lauded goal of the perfection of one’s self, which some unwise heathens and otherwise cruel cynics say is actually finding a new, more “enlightened” husband, enlightened of his
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capital and income, just as the truly devout have been unfairly judged since the Catholic Church strongly suggested the spiritual benefit and necessity of tithing.
Mom thought that she was entitled to be humored and had successfully invited Dad to join her in watching “The Glorious Self,” a panel discussion concerning the role of yoga meditation in attaining perfection, complete with a minimally backlit, silent, fifteen minute demonstration by the six female panelists, one having to leave stage early, the result of a disturbing sneezing fit.
Mom and Dad appropriately stared at the still screen in their own form of relaxation. When the broadcast ended with a hugging session during which the six stars remained two feet apart and may have briefly touched cheeks and Sneezy accidentally sprayed two otherwise flawless sisters, Mom shut the television and said; “I’m going to get plenty of time to sit still in the quiet darkness. I don’t need it now.” She went to the wine cabinet and poured one for herself and one for Dad, which she handed to him palm up.
Dad was tickled and as he made inaudible, contented “Thank yous.” He offered his take on the end of the world, saying; “It’s always a bad bet to say that the world will end, as if you’re right it will be extremely difficult to collect and if you’re wrong they’ll easily find you.” Mom found his linguistic observation stimulating and gave him more wine.
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At 10AM, everyone was able to confirm who was going to be patrolling, not only the Thatcher domain, but the entirety of Camino De Lucia; PTSD Deadeye accompanied by his brown stallion McBundy. The Thatchers heard rifle reports. Mom and Dad cautiously went to a street window, keeping their bodies behind the adobe wall and using their heads to peer at the activity, which they realized wasn’t the brightest thing in the world to do, but until they grew eyes on their butts, would have to suffice.
Polly and Prince came down the stairs and Dad said; “Polly! Stay away from the window.” He looked at the driveway and added; “You forgot to close the gate.”
Polly was surprised and said; “I never close the gate.”
Prince put his front paws on the brick window sill and saw the combat fatigued and booted man with a black mushroom-top helmet on an embarrassed looking horse point his rifle to the threatening dark sky. Prince wasn’t thrilled about the weather, but he wasn’t all that upset about it, either. His opinion of humans was strengthened. He momentarily wondered if shooting at the sky did any good, but decided that it obviously didn’t, as if it did he would have seen a lot more malcontents doing the same thing. He looked at Mom, who was smiling when she said; “He’s not interested in our driveway.”
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They watched him continue down the road, disappearing around the bend a few doors away. Dad said; “Maybe I ought to go close that gate before he comes back again.”
Polly said; “Maybe he’ll notice and get mad.”
Dad thought she had a point, but not wanting to appear incapable of defending his own property, actually the legal property of both he and the Mrs., but that’s not all that relevant in this situation, he went out the front door and moved in an ersatz catcher’s crouch down the brick walkway trying not to elevate his head beyond the cholla cactuses lining it. He nervously scooted over part of the unprotected driveway and got the gate closed. He reversed his field and got back inside the door, where he was greeted by two giggling, hugging women, who called him their hero.
Prince thought that the inside show was better than the outside one, thinking; “It must be that there’s something that I’m just not getting. Maybe if I pay better attention, someday .... ”
Droplets of rain hit the viewing window and Polly wondered if Deadeye’s barrage had pierced the clouds in the sky, but quickly concluded that it couldn’t have, as if it could it would have already been incorporated into some standardized, scientific, meteorological procedure. She was surprised to realize that she and her entire family were peering out the window as if it were a TV; precisely one of the things that made her disdainful of the
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snooping others. .......... But, this was different because they were watching a legitimate nut. .......... Hmmmmmmm.”
A bolt of lightning, a crackle and a boom ended her foray into accidental, unwanted insightfulness. The house shuddered.
Dad scurried to a back window and woefully said; “I hope the lightning didn’t hit the water pump again. I don’t know why it likes that spot so much. Isn’t there some old axiom that says lightning never hits the same place twice?”
Mom deadpanned; “Last time it fried the controller and the relay.”
Dad shook his head and said; “Yeah, three different service people, eight visits and $2,000. That’s the dilemma. It takes lots of work and the right materials to build something, yet it is easily destroyed by the blast of one idiot.”
Polly asked; “Who’s the idiot?”
Dad opened his mouth to say something, but decided that it was wrong before he became vocal. He looked to Mom for help, but she just grimaced, shook her head and showed him her palms.
Prince wished Polly had asked him as he had now been around humans long enough to have come to a few conclusions.
Dad held his breath, walked out the back door, went through the crazy triangular room and into the garage. He pushed three buttons of the controller and with munchkin steps, slowly walked back outside, afraid to see the bad news. He trembled and shook
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when he heard another nearby lightning bolt strike. “Hallelujah,”
he thought as he saw six rotating heads doing what they were supposed to; spraying water in thirty foot semi-circles. Desirous of a closer view, he went to one and inadvertently got face sprayed by another. He laughed as he didn’t mind at all, because the system was working correctly. He went back to the garage to shut it down and then went inside, wet and smiling. He wordlessly opened the wine cabinet, poured a red for himself and Mom, brought it to her and gave her a big laughing hug.
Prince resisted thinking what was becoming extremely redundant.
Polly considered again asking; “Who’s the idiot?” but was fearful that the question might be incorrectly interpreted and taken personally. She and Prince stood at the front window, viewed the grounds now running with random, shifting streams and instead of risking the tedious philosophical discourse, she excitedly yelled; “Come here! You’ve got to see this one!”
Prince’s tail spun like a helicopter about to take off making a thump-thump against the wall-wall.
Armed with wineglasses Mom and Dad carefully made their way to the moistened entertainment screen and Dad said; “Holy ....”
In the steady drizzle Deadeye must have thought that he was back in the clammy jungle on the booby-trap-mined Ho Chi Minh Trail. He was on foot, sort of and most of the time, having left
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McBundy safely at home. Either that or he went AWOL. Combat fatigues and beard thoroughly soaked and clinging to his skin, he staggered and swung his rifle from one side to the other. He frequently crouched or fell to the ground, most often when he detected possible sniper activity in the not-yet-defoliated brush at his sides. He screamed; “Come out and fight like a man. I’m the only one left, but it ain’t over until the last man falls.”
Gun ready at the shoulder he approached the Thatcher gate and eyed the camouflaging plants with bulging eyes, intent on settling the issue once and for all.
The Thatchers hit the brick floor, not wanting to be seen and putting thick adobe between them and the soldier fighting a war, that they had incorrectly thought was over forty years ago.
Accustomed to the duty of protecting his property, which was technically the property of Adam and Lily Thatcher, but that was currently irrelevant, Prince let out a series of threatening growls and barks, which resulted in his being tackled and pulled to the floor by the whole family. He sighed, without a clue as to what prompted the team pounce and remained on the floor, with his chin flat to it, thinking; “I wish they would make sense, just once.”
All but the rumbling sky was quiet on the western front as the trio breathlessly looked at each other while Prince tried to tally the number of white painted, adobe bricks in the wall,
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frustrated that he could only count up to a tragically hopeless five.
Dad put one eyeball to the glass and saw that Deadeye passed the gate by and was now squatting behind a cottonwood tree across the street, rifle aimed at the black Peugeot in the driveway, driven by one of the area’s uninformed newcomers, who was fortunate to click open the garage door, drive right in and close it behind her.
When he remembered that there were no automatic garage doors on the Ho Chi Minh Trail, Deadeye’s mind clunked back to the approximation of reality which was “normal” for him. He knew he was on Camino De Lucia in the town of Corrales, in the state of New Mexico, in the United States of America, that it was 1969 and he was home on temporary R&R. Though not seeing anyone, he waved to anyone he might have offended and walked back toward his house to get McBundy.
As they again paraded, the proud brown horse watched the ground, not feeling up to eye contact with anything taller than a flightless insect, though he didn’t know that had he looked up the result would have been the same. The white “human” watched the sky, feeling alive with a face full of rain. He defiantly shot up, hoping to hit what he considered to be the source of all his troubles, the target hiding above, momentarily ignoring the fluid
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cooking on the ground in the summer heat, which was the only solution available to him.
Unaccosted, he was still on his vigil at 1:45PM. Inside, people switched channels long before that, searching for “action”
entertainment; many gleefully finding the seventh cable repeat of
“Rocky XXXV,” wherein the hard-working, diligent, sixty-eight year old pugilist makes yet another comeback to battle the young kick-boxing champion, Chu Wang, ostensibly to prove that Americans are not only limited to hand dexterity, but are also capable of putting a foot into it. The lone horse rider’s only remaining audience showed his snoot each time he passed in front of the Thatcher residence. Paws on the window sill, Prince howled out a warning call to the helmeted horseman and each time Deadeye nodded and casually waved in the brave puppy’s direction, saying; “You’re a good guard dog.” The repetitious parade continued until 2PM, when McBundy sensed that the gunner on his back had fallen asleep and took Deadeye home.
And Camino De Lucia was again safe for meddlesome democracy for the foreseeable future.
The foreseeable future came to an abrupt halt when the ominous dark clouds which had been thundering and blowing through the windy sky all day decided to do their damage just prior to dusk. Torrential rains descended whipping like pellets on
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anything outside, cleaning the driveway cars with power blasts not available at local car wash places. The cracked liberty bell, atop the Thatcher residence played a call to arms, its clapper rocking in the storm winds. At least that appeared to be the likelihood in the opinion of the self-appointed protector of neighborhood independence; Deadeye.
He had done some backyard target shooting while McBundy hid and Deadeye downed half a bottle of Jack Daniels since his afternoon one-man parade and did not want to get out of his plushy recliner in front of his wall mounted, large screen television, especially in the middle of his favorite movie, “Heavy Metal Jacket;” but duty was indeed duty, unless the bells he heard were the sounds of his brain bouncing around like a BB. Sitting comfortably in the drawers he marked for the month of July, he pushed down on the foot pad, bringing the chair to its “normal”
position, only slightly staggering as he rose from the wobbling piece of furniture. He went to the open eastern window and was showered with rain, which matted down his now dry and scraggly beard, but more importantly confirmed what he thought. From his almost outside vantage point he was now certain that the liberty Bell was calling its fool head off and the call was to Mr. PTSD; him. He thought; “The nerve of those commies to attack right on the most special day. I’ll show them that America is always on the alert.” He quickly put on his combat fatigues and helmet,
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tripping as he had some difficulty getting his legs into the pants, grabbed his always-ready rifle and strode to the barn. His horse, McBundy was reclining on the straw floor and looked startled to see him, with an expression that seemed to say; “You must be kidding. There’s a downpour.” Deadeye was undeterred and slipped on the saddle and reins, saying; “We’ve gotta git, man.
There’s trouble in paradise.”
McBundy reluctantly stood up, knowing that whatever nonsense Deadeye had in mind was going to get done, no matter what protest he registered. They exited the barn and their property, heading slowly east toward the insistent bell. Deadeye nervously scanned the area, but was unable to see anyone dumb enough to be out in the storm, but knew from experience that the enemy was sneaky and could very well be hiding under a rock, waiting for the right moment to attack.
He heard gunshots. Actually it was the Rulestones on their front porch throwing firecrackers. Deadeye dismounted and proceeded on foot to present a lower target. He heard another shot and saw something moving fast. He fired in its direction and split in two the brown rabbit who hated the white one. Neither Mary Jane or Leo would never again have to re-stand her white rabbit lawn ornament.
Mr. Rulestone considered the brown rabbit his beloved friend.
He yelled; “You must be some kind of a dangerous nut. You killed
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my pet. I’ll fix you.” He went inside and retrieved his hunting rifle, came out and took a shot in Deadeye’s direction, intending to scare him away. It was the mistake of a mistake-full lifetime, witness Mrs. Rulestone, as from his crouching position, Deadeye, who didn’t earn that name because of his facial features, shot, hitting Mr. Rulestone’s left eye. Mr. Rulestone reeled slowly back and down, like when he listened to Mrs. Rulestone’s complaints and saw her wrinkled up, smelling-something-foul face.
She couldn’t believe what she was seeing and thought that her husband was making his well-worn reaction. She started waving her arms around, yelling; “I didn’t even say anything. I ought to take that rifle and ......,” which proved to be her last words as Deadeye thought it possible she was going to shoot at him and plugged her first; right above her wrinkled nose.
Deadeye thought he was doing rather well, but rather than resting on his laurels, he decided to find out if the enemies were dead and if there were any others hiding in the house. He crawled on his belly up to the house. They were dead all right. He opened the door and slid in carefully, looking for more Viet Cong.
He heard sirens outside and looked through the window to see four police cars screech to a halt in front of the house, cherries revolving and cops crouched behind each vee-hickle. Deadeye knew that those treacherous, sneaky VC’s were pulling another trick and took position on the window’s left side. Protected by eighteen
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inch adobe and in a location to fire he was set for the final showdown.
A cop on a bullhorn crackled; “Throw the weapon outside and come out with your hands in the air.”
“Come and get me VC commie.”
After a few similar interchanges the cops decided that their approach had to change as they wanted to get to the bodies lying on the porch, thinking it possible that they might still be alive.
Under cover of fire one cop circled the house, got to its side, broke a window and threw in a gas canister. Accustomed to this procedure in his Viet Nam heyday, Deadeye got towels from the bathroom, picked up the canister in them and threw it back out.
He fired at the police cars and the officers crouching behind them. He yelled; “Is that your best shot? Support is on the way.”
The cops looked at each other, hoping someone had a bright idea. Nervous headshakes were all that was seen as these guys were Corrales cops, more accustomed to giving out traffic tickets, their most dangerous work answering domestic violence reports.
Joining the rest of the neighborhood Polly and her parents went to their eastern windows to see what was going on. They didn’t have the advantage of many of their fellow residents who had benches at their favorite viewing spots, so they got “standing room only” accommodations. They had no idea what had happened and
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merely saw the police cars in front of the Rulestone residence, with the cops crouching behind.
Dad chuckled and said; “He must have finally blasted her one.”
Mom said; “Are you sure it wasn’t the other way around?”
Polly was of a more practical nature and said; “Glad we’re not out now.”
Prince refrained from commentary and focused on the pleasing visuals; the spinning red cherry tops and the rain on the windows provided a kaleidoscope of flashing colors, constantly changing.
The bullhorn cop droned; “Don’t make it hard on yourself.
Come on out.”
Deadeye thought that was one of the dumbest things he had ever heard, considered not dignifying it with a reply, but finally said; “War is hell.”
One cop said; “Oh boy, we’ve got a live one here.”
Bullhorn said; “What is it you want?”
Deadeye drew a blank.
Bullhorn said; “Come on. One more chance. Throw your gun out.”
“You throw yours.” The liquor he had consumed was now making him feel very tired. He hoped his backup would get there soon, so he went to the Rulestone computer and texted a message to Unit #2
from Unit #1 saying; “Hurry. Can’t hold out much longer. Need
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backup. VC all over Camino De Lucia.” He took two steps back toward his window perch and passed out.
Seven Unit #2’s got the message and two of them thought that it sounded like something interesting was going on and decided to drive there.
Bullhorn tried a bluff and bellowed; “If you don’t come out right now, we’ll launch an incendiary grenade and burn you out.”
He got no response from within. Deadeye had a smile on his face dreaming of some Viet Namese girls he knew when there in his glory days.
Bullhorn yelled; “Okay, we’re getting the grenade ready.”
No response.
“You’re lucky we’re having trouble with it. Gives you another chance. What is it you want?”
No response.
One of the cops said; “We’re going to have to charge the place. Those bodies have been sitting there too long.”
Another cop said; “You charge the place. I’ll stay here and give you cover fire.”
An old beat-up green Chevy approached. The cops tried to wave it away, but refused to get out of their crouching position.
The driver, 64 year old Viet Nam veteran, Hal Chase paid no attention and parked next to them. He got out, stood erect and asked; “What’s going on here?”
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One cop tried to pull him down. He was unsuccessful as Hal was a big guy and the cop didn’t want to be in the line of fire very long. Three cops tackled him and pulled him behind one of their cars. Sprawled on his back Hal virtually repeated himself, saying; “Now, will somebody tell me what’s going on.”
Having nothing he’d rather be doing at the moment than talking one cop said; “Guy in there with PTSD shot two people.
Bodies are on the porch. He thinks we’re the Viet Cong attacking him. Won’t come out.”
Hal said; “Deadeye?”
“I don’t know, but he’s a pretty good shot. Real name is Gregory Saunders. Lives a few houses away.”
“Deadeye.” Hal had known him for decades, as much as one can know someone brain damaged. He knew that he was out of it, but never thought it would come to this.
Two more cars barreled onto the scene, despite being waved off. They parked and the drivers exited. One said; “Somebody call for backup?”
No cop knew what to say as each thought it possible that the off-site chief may have called and besides, they needed all the help they could get. One cop pulled the two newcomers down into the trenches and they all started to babble what they knew at them, hoping the fresh arrivals had some kind of answer.
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Hal saw that nobody was any longer paying any attention to him and decided to try to help out his old buddy. He knew that no matter how demented he felt today that Deadeye would recognize him as an ally; most likely. He got up and walked directly to the house waving his arms in the air and saying over and over;
“Deadeye. Its Hal come to help out.”
The cops thought that they now might be dealing with two nuts and one offered to shoot Hal before he could get cover, but was stopped by the Bullhorn in charge, who said; “It’ll look really bad if we shoot someone in the back who hasn’t yet committed a crime.” The others grudgingly nodded their heads “Right,” but under the circumstances had their doubts. They watched intently as Hal approached wondering what would happen next.
Hal got to the porch and saw the two bodies, checked for a pulse and found none. He opened the creaking front door slowly and the noise stirred Deadeye, who though partially dazed knew enough to grab his rifle and position himself to the side of a door. He heard; “Deadeye. Its Hal come to help out.”
Deadeye saw the hulk of a man coming his way and wondered if this wasn’t some other kind of VC trick, but was somewhat relieved to see the talking man was not armed, at least not noticeably.
“Deadeye. Its Hal come to help out.”
“Stand where you are. How can I know it’s really you?”
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Hal stood still, threw out his hands to each side and disgustedly said; “You called me, idiot. You requested backup.
Well, here it is.”
Deadeye dropped the rifle, went to Hal and gave him a big hug. He said; “Oh yeah, man. Thanks. I killed two VC and there are a bunch more in front disguised as cops.”
“Got it taken care of already. Snuck up behind them and sent them all back to the rice paddies.”
Deadeye brightly looked through the window and saw that the cops were still there and said so.
Hal said; “No, no. The bodies of the fake cops have been taken away. What you see is the real Corrales cops waiting there to give you a medal and a little parade.”
“Aren’t you going to get one too?”
Hal hadn’t considered that previously as he was winging the whole operation, but he came up with; “Sure, sure. Me and you together.” He gave Deadeye another brisk hug and let go, suddenly feeling bad that this would be the end for someone whose life got ruined because he fought for his country when so many others never did, but made the decisions. He remembered the innocent eighteen year old he met 44 years ago as well as others who never came back at all. He remembered how Deadeye covered for him, running out into the open, blazing away, when a VC sniper had the drop on him.
A tear came to his eye, but he stifled it, realizing that there
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was nothing to be done now as two people were dead. Hal said;
“Listen. You stay here. I have to go tell those cops that you’ll be coming out with me and that you know they are really cops. The way you shoot they don’t want to get any part of their bodies out from behind their cars.”
Deadeye was complimented and silently nodded somewhat effacingly as Hal walked out the front door. Hal walked to the crouching cops and entourage and said; “I can get him out peacefully. The two people on the porch are definitely dead.”
Bullhorn breathed a loud sigh of relief, but caught himself when he considered the Rulestone fate and answered; “Oh, no.
Okay, get him.”
“But no handcuffs.”
“That’s not proper police procedure.”
“Look where your proper police procedure has gotten you.”
Silence.
“I’ve convinced him that you’re here to give him a mini-parade and a medal. He’ll be unarmed and I’ll sit with him in the back of the car.”
Bullhorn was outraged and loudly said; “A medal for killing two people. Forget that!” General agreeing grumbles came from the rank and file.
Hal angrily said; “He killed more in Nam. How many of you have seen combat overseas?”
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Heads surveyed the ground puddles.
“I thought as much. You have no idea what it’s like. He’s coming out the way I said or I’ll go back in there and join his campaign.”
Bullhorn saw pragmatism and said; “Fine, but no guns.”
Hal nodded and went back to the house where he found Deadeye on the computer sending an e-mail to someone which said; “Hal thought he fooled me with the medal stuff, but I know the score.
Sometimes I just get crazy. It’s better for everyone this way.”
Hal said; “War’s over, buddy. Time to go home.”
Deadeye clicked on the “send” box and solemnly nodded to his pal, then walked out of the house with him. As he passed the Rulestone bodies, he turned his head up to the pouring dark sky and opened his mouth with an agonized, questioning face, but no words came out.
Seeing no arms the cops stood and watched the procession, glad they were out of danger, glad that the perpetrator was apprehended, sorry for the Rulestones, oddly grateful to men like Deadeye for their own freedom and remorseful for them at the same time.
Hal and Deadeye were escorted to the back seat of Bullhorn’s car and as they drove through the development saw the people viewing from their windows. One of them tried to imagine that
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this was the long overdue, respectful viewing of an ancient forgotten hero.
Eventually Deadeye’s lawyer worked out a deal whereby Deadeye would spend the rest of his life in a high security psychiatric facility, which he would come to consider as little change from his previous surroundings. Hal came back to Camino De Lucia to get McBundy and kept him with his other two horses. The White Rabbit lawn ornament stood undisturbed at attention.
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